by M. Z. Kelly
Haley Tristan was about my age, maybe five eight, with a slender build. Her curled hair was a softer shade of auburn than it was when I’d last seen her. The reporter’s eyes were a manufactured shade of violet, thanks to contacts. She had full lips that were pink and full of collagen. My new best friend had a habit of scribbling in a notepad without looking at it as I talked. Having met her on a prior case, I already knew that I also hated her.
After the update, Tristan pushed her writing pad to the side and brushed a hand through her curls. In a voice that was both officious and grating she said, “Let’s be frank about a few things, Detective. We’ve had a good working relationship in the past. I want us to lay our cards on the table.”
I swallowed, looked over at Shafter who still had the frozen smile and swimming eyes. I met Tristan’s eyes again. “I’m here to help in any way I can.”
“The Jezzie Rose investigation has been mishandled from day one.” I started to protest but Tristan said, “Let me finish.” I exhaled, waited for her to unload. “Your investigators, based upon circumstantial evidence, made the false determination that Barry Ralston committed murder because of one prior incident involving a domestic disturbance with Jezzie. There’s no evidence that Ralston ever battered her or that he had any involvement in the crime. He also told Latisha Hill that he was innocent. He was an easy target because he was convenient, unsophisticated, and black.”
I glanced over at Shafter whose fish eyes widened but otherwise gave nothing up. It was obvious that she was going to be no help to me.
“If you’re suggesting that race played any part in this case you’re mistaken,” I said, at the same time knowing that what she’d said about circumstantial evidence was probably accurate. The reporter was pushing every button she could think of to get me to over react. I tried to choose my words carefully and keep my voice even. “The last thing this department or the community needs is for the press to suggest there was some racial motive for suspecting Ralston.”
Shafter, apparently sensing an opening, echoed my comments and went on with some blather about the department wanting an unbiased investigation. It was media-speak at its finest, lots of platitudes that meant nothing.
“I guess time will tell whether there was anything biased in your original investigation of the case,” Tristan said, ignoring Shafter and meeting my eyes. “I’m certainly willing to give you the benefit of the doubt. But I want you to know that when all is said and done I’m going to report the facts of this case, regardless of the fallout to you personally or your department.”
“Why don’t you just build a bonfire in the middle of Hollywood Boulevard and roast me alive, bitch.” Okay, I didn’t say it. What I did say was, “And, while we are relooking at all aspects of the case, let me just state for the record that Barry Ralston is still the prime suspect.”
“He had an alibi.”
“His mother and a pizza deliveryman,” I agreed. “A mother obviously has her own biases and there was a window of opportunity after the pizza delivery that was available for him to commit the crime.”
“You’re making it sound like the department is still operating with a closed mind to the facts.” Tristan picked up her notepad, scribbled something without looking at it. “You still believe that Ralston is guilty.”
“All I’m saying is that he’s still the prime suspect, but we’re looking at all aspects of the case. You will have access to our investigation, providing it’s cleared with my superior through Media Relations.” I looked at Shafter who nodded in agreement and hit the smile button. Thanks for nothing.
Tristan put her notepad back in her purse. “If that’s the case, let’s go catch a killer, Detective.”
***
On our way to Club Z, Muriel Shafter suggested that we stop by Westlake University and talk to the president of the school. I knew it was for show and tell, to give the press the impression that we were being inclusive of anyone who might have an interest in the case, but it was also a waste of time. I agreed only because not agreeing would be reported up the chain of command.
After a thirty minute slap and chuckle session with Walter Stanwich, it became clear to me why we’d stopped to see the university president. Haley Tristan had set up the meeting through Shafter in advance for her own purposes.
The reporter spent most of the time asking Stanwich inane questions, batting her violet eyes, and adjusting and readjusting her very short red skirt. Before the session mercifully ended I half expected Tristan to yank a fuck me sign out of her handbag.
Stanwich pledged his full cooperation in the investigation and continued to praise the school’s athletic prowess, as I ushered the others out of his office. We were in the parking lot, about to get in our cars, when we ran into Natalie and Mo.
They came over and explained they were headed to their yoga class. Both women wore tank tops and form fitting Capri pants that left little to the imagination. I took Natalie aside when she said she had something to tell me.
“You might wanna stop by and talk to our instructor,” she said. “As I mentioned before, Brian Hamlin knows Shane Mumford. A couple of my classmates also said somethin’ about Jezzie’s trainer wanting to give her a little physical therapy, if you know what I mean.” She nudged me. “It’ll also give you a chance to meet Mr. Hunky.”
“I think it could be worth your while in more ways than one,” Mo agreed, after coming over and hearing what Natalie said.
I briefly discussed what they’d suggested with Charlie and he agreed that talking to Hamlin might shake something loose. We brought the others over, made brief introductions, and explained that we were going to talk to the yoga instructor.
We began walking to the gymnasium with Bernie leading us as he sniffed along school’s walkway. The brothers, apparently inspired by Natalie’s ensemble, started to revert to their former selves.
“You wanna get a burger sometime,” Kyle Gooch said to Natalie. His eyes were riveted on her swaying anatomy and his tongue was doing an imitation of Bernie on a hot day at the dog pound.
“We know a great place down by the beach in Santa Monica,” Glade agreed. “Maybe you’ve got a friendly friend you could bring with you. We could double down.”
Natalie, who once told me that if you cut a man open all you would find is a sack of penises, apparently decided that my day hadn’t been bad enough. “Kate and me would be happy to have lunch with you both. Let us know what works for you.”
“Maybe Friday, if that’s okay with you guys,” Gooch said, smiling over at me.
I turned to Natalie and shook my head in disbelief. “I’m busy,” I said to Gooch, picking up my pace.
“Since Kate’s tied up, maybe Nana is free and could join us,” Natalie said to the brothers, laughing.
“Naw-naw?” Glade said from behind us, pronouncing the name as he’d heard it in Natalie’s British accent. “Is that some kind of supermodel’s name, like that Iman chick?”
“Exactly,” I said, turning back to him. “And Naw-naw is really hot.” Thanks to a clinical trial involving a sex drug for octogenarians.
When the brothers did a high five I motioned to Haley Tristan and gave them the stink eye. They stopped talking and fell into step behind us, marching to the gymnasium like a couple of horny soldiers.
I motioned to the brothers and quietly said to Natalie, “How is Tex going to feel about you having lunch with those two?”
“The bloom is coming off the rose with me and Tex. We’re now just bed buddies.” I wasn’t sure what that meant. Natalie added, “I hope Nana can make our lunch date. She called this morning and said that Elvis lost the contest. She’s going to stay in Vegas for a couple of days to console him.”
“God help him,” I said, a horrific image of Nana consoling Elvis flashing through my mind. I lowered my voice, adding, “And God help Gooch and Glade if she shows up.”
When we got to the gymnasium there were about a dozen men and women stretching and engaging in a variety o
f yoga poses, practicing for the class. Natalie and Mo introduced me to their instructor, at the same time beaming knowing smiles in my direction.
“I’m pleased to meet you,” Dave Hamlin said, taking my hand. “I’ve heard a lot about you from your friends.”
“None of its true,” I said.
He smiled. “I was hoping you’d say that.”
I didn’t want to even think about what Natalie and Mo might have said to him, so I moved on, introducing the task force, Haley Tristan, and Muriel Shafter.
As the yoga instructor shook hands all around, I decided that Natalie had been correct in her assessment of him. Hamlin was about thirty-five, maybe six feet, with a solid build and a touch of gray at the temples of his short, sandy brown hair. He had large inquisitive brown eyes that telegraphed warmth and sincerity. I felt something flutter in my chest as I asked him about Shane Mumford.
“He sometimes volunteered to help out with my classes,” Hamlin explained. “But he was probably more interested in the participants than the instruction.”
“As in the female students?” I asked. “Such as Jezzie Rose?”
He nodded. “I think he was on the rebound from a failed relationship. I remember that he was particularly attracted to Jezzie, even brought her a couple of presents as I recall.”
“What kind of presents?” Haley Tristan asked, interrupting. I was not happy that a reporter was butting into a police interview with a witness. I decided it wasn’t the place or time to make an issue of it, but I would definitely bring it up later.
“He brought her tickets to a couple of Laker games, I think,” Hamlin said. “He also said something about a concert.”
“Do you know how Jezzie reacted to receiving the gifts?” I asked before Tristan could intervene again.
He shrugged. “As far as I know she was okay with it. I’m not sure what happened with their relationship. Mumford stopped coming around after a few weeks and Jezzie never said anything to me about him.”
Tristan broke in again, irritating the hell out of me. “Did you ever see Mumford express any anger toward Jezzie, maybe threaten her?”
“No,” Hamlin said. “From what I saw, they seemed to be okay.”
Tristan went on. “Do you thinking they could have been involved in a sexual relationship?”
Mo came over to Tristan before Hamlin could answer, apparently deciding it was time to give the reporter her take on the issue. “From what I heard ‘round the school Mumford was bending her like Beckham—and I ain’t talking ‘bout banging no soccer ball.”
That was apparently Natalie’s cue to demonstrate that she had a mouth without a filter. “I think Mumford was on Jezzie like a horse with two dicks. Betcha he was the baby daddy.”
Tristan looked at me, her eyes growing to the size of two violet moons, about the same time my mouth fell open.
Before I could respond, Tristan looked back at Natalie and said, “Baby what? What are you talking about?”
I knew it was too late to do damage control. Muriel Shafter looked over Tristan’s shoulder with a scowl on her face while Charlie just stood there shrugging.
“I think you need to explain what’s going on, Detective,” Shafter said to me.
“That would be a good place to start,” Tristan agreed. “And while you’re at it you can explain why you withheld information from me that’s pertinent to this investigation.”
I released a controlled breath and tried to keep my voice steady. “We only recently received information that Jezzie may have been pregnant and miscarried a few weeks before she was killed. We’re still trying to verify that information. We’re not even sure that if she was pregnant her parents knew about it.”
Shafter stepped forward, her fish eyes looked like something in a shark tank. “Until we’re able to sort this out, I want us all to agree that this information is to remain confidential.”
“That’s something I think we can all agree to,” Charlie offered, trying to be the peacemaker.
Tristan raised her voice loud enough for the class participants to take notice. “The public has a right to know…”
“I agree,” I said, now raising my voice and shaking with anger. “Providing we verify the facts and make sure Al and Flo Rose don’t hear about their daughter’s pregnancy by reading about it in the Sunday edition of your newspaper.”
Natalie was at my side, hands on her hips. She said to Tristan, “You don’t hafta get all snarky ‘bout it, lady. Maybe you need to keep your mouth shut before you got all the facts straight.”
Mo was right beside her, two hundred pounds of angry ex-pimp on the warpath. “And what’s up with you trying to make things worse for Jezzie’s mom and dad? You got any idea what it’s like to lose a kid?”
“This is none of your business,” Tristan spat, her voice taking on a high pitched squeal. “This is a police matter.”
Mo moved closer to the reporter, leaning forward until she was inches from her face. “You got that right lady. And last I checked you ain’t no fucking cop.”
“Let’s all try to calm down,” Muriel Shafter yelled, probably realizing the confrontation might reflect poorly on her. “Let me talk to my office. We can make a decision about how and when to release the information from there.”
“Great idea, consult with The Beast, you smiling fish-eyed media sucking goon.” Okay, I didn’t say it. I just walked away with Charlie and my friends, took several deep breaths, and contemplated murdering both women.
After I calmed down I looked back over at Shafter and Tristan at the same time Bernie’s leash slipped from my hands. I thought about going after him, but decided to let him be, thinking he was going to do his usual trot and sniff. Instead, I realized he was headed directly for the two women. As I watched what happened next, I remembered once having a discussion with a dog trainer about certain canine behaviors. He said that dogs will sometimes engage in unexpected actions because they encounter urine left over in the environment by other dogs.
I’m not sure if the trainer’s explanation was accurate. All I know is that my big dog trotted over to Haley Tristan and displayed an act of unbridled justice that will forever bind the human and canine species together as best friends. Bernie lifted his hind leg, aimed directly at the reporter’s five hundred dollar Christian Louboutin red stilettos, and peed.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
After Haley Tristan went ballistic, screaming that she would have Bernie quarantined, Muriel Shafter made a couple of calls. We were all told to report downtown to the Media Relations Section, or MRS, at the Police Administration Building. Apparently, catching a killer had its place in line right behind kissing the media’s ass. All I knew for sure was that both Bernie and I were pissed. My dog had made his case. Now it was my turn.
While Charlie and the brothers went off to the cafeteria, Bernie and I found Lieutenant Edna outside the MRS offices pacing back and forth, waiting for an audience with the commander. Haley Tristan was nearby, talking non-stop on her phone, maybe to a shoe salesman.
“She’s going to make a fucking federal case out of this,” Edna said to me. My fifty-something lieutenant looked like he’d aged ten years in the last couple of days. His eyes were bloodshot, his hair a thatch of uncombed gray straw. “According to her the department purposely withheld information. She’s threatening to go to press and say we went back on our word to cooperate.”
“The information we held back has not been verified and, if it’s true, could be pertinent to solving this case. We decided beforehand there would be some facts we wouldn’t be able to share.”
Edna stomped around. “I know…I know. It’s just that I didn’t think things would blow up like this. You never know whose side the department’s gonna come down on.”
Edna decided to save himself some aggravation and sent the brothers back to the station after they returned from the cafeteria. Just before we were called into the commander’s office by Muriel Shafter, Charlie told us he had to leave because his
daughter’s school called with some kind of emergency.
The MRS commander, Rob Nelson, met us at the doorway to his office and led us into an adjoining conference room. Haley Tristan was already seated, along with Dominick Salvatore, the Herald-Press’ city editor. I’d met Salvatore a couple of times before at department events. He was a tall, gaunt man whose tonsure rising above his fluffy flange of hair gave the appearance of a large white egg nesting in gray feathers.
From what I knew of the newspaper man, he liked to be the center of attention and made sure everyone knew it. He’d been called Ross Atkinson’s mouthpiece in a recent magazine article that said he relished the role of ferreting out corruption and incompetence for the newspaper’s owner. Our side, if there was an our side, had its work cut out.
After Bernie settled at my feet and pleasantries were exchanged, Nelson took a seat at the head of the table with Muriel Shafter at his side. The commander was in his late fifties with gray eyes and a thin build. He had a resonate, baritone voice that reminded me of the country singer, Josh Turner.
“From what I understand from talking to Detective Shafter,” Nelson began, “there are a couple of issues that need to be resolved.”
“It goes deeper than that,” Salvatore objected. “We believe there’s been a deliberate intent to conceal facts pertinent to this case. We were promised to be embedded in this investigation. What we got instead was window dressing meant to look like media cooperation.”
Nelson looked at me and Edna. I started to open my mouth and defend our actions but he waved a hand. “Mr. Salvatore, let’s be clear about a couple of things. When the chief allowed a reporter to be embedded, there was an expectation of complete confidentiality until an arrest was made.”
“No one has breached confidentiality,” Tristan said. “What we have here is a breach of trust.”
“That’s simply untrue,” I said, unable to keep quiet a moment longer. “As with any case there are facts and information that must be withheld from the press and the public so that those leads can be developed and investigated.”